This is MY house

[fiction]

CHAPTER 1

I was excited to start cleaning this house, it was a new customer. He was a police officer and widower. I always enjoy being a blessing to people who serve to protect our American freedoms and especially people who have suffered tragedies. I was looking over my list of things he wanted done, but one thing kept resonating in my mind about our conversation. When we asked about his wife, he politely said she had passed away earlier that year. He talked about how they built that house and he would never suggest it to anyone, said it almost destroyed their marriage. When he was showing us the gun cabinet he boasted and bragged about how much bigger it was compared to the china cabinet; then laughed, sneered and scorned the smaller china cabinet he built for his wife. When he spoke of these contrasts there was bitterness in his voice. I have never heard a widow or widower talk about their deceased spouse in such a resentful manner, it was odd to hear.

Eager to get busy, I walked into the house. It was a “Deep Clean” day as usual; we entered the house with all our cleaning products and utensils. Normally when we do a deep clean we go room to room together, but for some reason we separated today. I went to start in the Master bathroom while my partner started in the clients Great Room. After about an hour of scrubbing the tub, shower, toilet and sink I started my way scrubbing walls in the small hall-way that separated the bathroom from the bedroom. There were tiny, dark splatter marks all over the walls. The Splats were only visible to a cleaner who pays attention to detail. While on my hands and knees I kept having reoccurring thoughts and impressions. “Something violent happened here”. I ignored it and pushed the thoughts aside. “Something violent happened here”. I ignored it again, but didn’t push it completely aside. I thought maybe I am thinking this way only because he is a police officer and I've watched too many movies. So I kept scrubbing tiny little splats here and there. “Something violent happened here”. I looked more closely at the tiny brown splats. As I wipe them away they would turn red with the dampness of the rag, appearing to be tiny blood splatters. “Something violent happened here”. I sat back and looked at the where the splats once were, the ones I scrubbed clean. Looking down at the carpet between my feet, I

realized the golden shag carpet was fresh and new. Yeah, but this house isn’t that old, and their children are grown, I eyed the wall again and questioned, what could have made those splatter marks? A dog? Maybe a flea ridden dog jumped out of the bathtub and shook his fur and slung wet flea dung all over the wall? I was searching for an excuse. “Something violent happened here”. Maybe someone tried to break in. I couldn’t shake the repetitive thoughts as I continued my cleaning routine.

After finishing up the house I returned for one more inspection of the Master bedroom and bathroom. “Something violent happened here”. I gazed at the small hall-way and tucked the thoughts in the back of her mind. I was learning about intuition, and was no longer closed minded to it. I would always had “gut feelings” and was ready to explore them. My encounter that day left me questioning myself and my thoughts.